


In Silence We Take Flight

by Aiisling



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Complete, Fairy Tale Crossover, I really like the Wild Swans, M/M, Magic Realism, Other, Ship Sherlock with all the fairytales
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-11-22 17:34:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/612419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aiisling/pseuds/Aiisling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock jumps, and from the moment his body hits the pavement, John Watson does not say a word. There is a way to bring Sherlock back from the dead, if John is strong enough-and Moriarty doesn't beat him to it.  </p><p>A Sherlock fusion fic with Hans Christian Andersen's "Wild Swans."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. After The Fall

**Author's Note:**

> I've been reading a LOT of very well written Sherlock/fairy tale crossovers lately. And fairy tale retellings are kind of my thang. Anyways, this popped into my head a while back, and now I've been working on it and just read it. I hope you like it but it is totally cool if you don't. 
> 
> This should end up being a three parter with an epilogue, but, as we all know, these things don't always go according to plan so who knows amiright? 
> 
> Beta'd by the very cool Julia. 
> 
> (As always, I do not own the characters or plots connected to Sherlock Holmes or Arthur Conan Doyle).

_“Look at the nettle that I hold in my hand! Around the cave where you are sleeping grow many of them; only those nettles, or the ones found in churchyards may you use. You must pick them, even though they blister and burn your hands; then you must stamp on them with your bare feet until they become like flax. And from that you must twine thread with which to knit eleven shirts with long sleeves. If you cast one of these shirts over each of the eleven swans, the spell will be broken..."_

_-Hans Christian Anderson_

 

 

Sherlock jumped. 

John did not speak—he raced forward to identify the body, he was pushed back, he watched Sherlock being carried away. Later he _identified_ and _gave a statement_ and _wept_ but he did not speak and that night he returned to Baker Street. He put Mrs. Hudson to bed with a handful of soothers, tucked the blanket tight around her, and when she begged him not to disappear as well he bent over and kissed her on the forehead but he _did not speak_. 

When she had passed out wrapped in an ancient quilt on Sherlock’s bed John went upstairs, grabbed his gun, spare bullets, a bottle of water, three pairs of pants, a clean jumper, and a field surgeon’s kit, put them in an ancient rucksack, and slipped out the front door. 

In the morning when Mrs. Hudson woke up it was still dark except for a grey winter light that seeped in from the window. She turned and found a note on the pillow next to her.

_Gone to see a man about a bird. Keep the candle burning for us. -John_

Mrs. Hudson smoothed her hand over the crinkles in the paper. 

“My boys,” she murmured. She sat up, neatened the covers on his bed, and left the room. A moment later she returned with a tall white candle and a small clay dish. She placed the candle on the dish and put them both in the window, lit a match with a quiet hiss and held it to the wick. Fire bloomed, filling the room with dancing orange light that cast strange shadows over her face. Mrs. Hudson looked hopeful but mostly tired and if someone had looked up from the street they would have seen only the light from the candle. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It was still dark. On his walk through London John kept his eyes glued to the pavement, searching for something. He found it on the corner of a disreputable street where Sherlock had often met with members of his homeless network. The feather was black as tar, too big to be from a crow, had to be a raven or a swan or some other large and intractable bird. John picked it up and twirled it gently, ran one blunt finger down its edge, a soft sigh on his lips. There was a name there, too, a name he did not speak. He slipped the feather inside his jumper, replaced it with a thick white envelope, and continued walking until he reached the graveyard where Sherlock was going to be buried. Sherlock’s grave was far away from the entrance. There was already a long rectangular hole splitting the damp soil, waiting for his coffin.

John knelt in the frozen mud, the night pressing down against his shoulders. He reached into his jumper and pulled out the black feather, ran it over his lips with another sigh. Closed his eyes in momentary indulgence before dropping the feather into the grave. It sifted to the ground before landing on the dirt, just where Sherlock’s head would lie. John tightened his lips and stood. He found a stand of trees close by and hid himself beneath their branches to keep vigil until the body arrived.

The next day it rained, and the feather grew thick with mud. John cleaned it as best he could and put it back onto the icy soil before returning to the trees. Nobody visited the graveyard in the cold rain and he was left unmolested as water carved new pathways down his back. The day after that was Sherlock’s funeral. 

John hid, just distant enough that Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft and Lestrade would not see him, close enough that he could see the coffin carried in, could see it lowered slowly into the ground until it hit the dirt with a heavy thump. He didn’t turn away until they began to rain earth upon the wood. Mrs. Hudson, he noted, did not lean on Mycroft. The weakness she’d shown when she asked John to stay had passed. She held herself tall and strong, as if she were not a lady but Britain herself, standing watch over the body, ready to guard it until she was no longer needed. John turned then and went further into the woods around the gravesite, hoisting his bag higher on his shoulders, making his way towards the small brick chapel that sat forgotten on the farthest edge of the property. In the distance he could hear the muffled sound of cars and the busy streets of London, and then he heard a twig crack at the edge of the woods.

The youngest member of Sherlock’s homeless network stood staring at him, John’s white envelope clutched in one hand. When John had left it in the street it had been filled with a letter and twenty pound notes. Now the boy handed it to him, and John felt the unmistakable shapes of a needle and a wooden comb beneath the paper. As soon as he took it the dirty boy retreated to a safer distance. The boy paused at the edge of the woods, looking around nervously, feeling the exposure that came from standing beside an abandoned church where the eye of God is strongest. 

“Good luck, Dr. Watson,” the boy said, and met his eyes before darting away. John nodded at his retreating back, placed the envelope carefully into his jumper, and turned back towards the woods. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Where is John, Mrs. Hudson?” 

Mycroft’s tone was weary. She put her hand on his shoulder, frowning as she read the lines of guilt and sorrow on his face, which was thinner and grayer than she was used to. 

“I’ll make you a cup of tea, Mycroft,” she said, her hand tightening. “And then you can tell me what happened with Sherlock.”

The tea kettle was already boiling. She poured three cups, left one steaming on the counter with milk, as John preferred it, and a healthy spiking of lemon and sugar for her Sherlock. The other cups she placed on the table in front of herself and Mycroft. He took his, lifted it to his lips, but did not drink.

“It’s my fault,” he said, and put the cup down with a shaking hand. “I should be punished, but there is no one to do it for me.” _Now that John’s gone._ He did not say it aloud but they both heard it nevertheless. 

Mrs. Hudson smiled at him sadly, and reached out to cover his hand with her own. “You are being punished, dear. You don’t get to save him this time. You have to watch and wait, like the rest of us.”

He blinked twice, and a small mean part of her relished the fact that she’d just surprised Mycroft Holmes. Then, with a motherly sigh, she pushed a plate of biscuits closer to him.

 “Now. How is that dear assistant of yours?”

Mycroft blinked again, then reached out to take a biscuit. “She is well. Thank you for asking.” He bit into his biscuit. Swallowed past the lump in his throat. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

John did not stop walking until he reached the Thames. He passed a few docks and several ambitious fishermen with their lines deep in the murky waters. On either side London stretched vibrant and alive despite the overabundance of grey. It roared at him, begged him not to go, to weep with it for its most beloved son. John pulled himself away. He continued down the bank of the river until he found a young woman wrapped in a filthy patched parka that had once been the color of a ripe tomato. She wore a baseball cap over thinning hair, and her face was almost as filthy as the jacket. When John approached she stood rapidly, her movements twitching with the restlessness of a good high. 

“Here, Dr. Watson,” she said, and pressed a muddy key into his hand. He pocketed it with a nod. “Yer boats down that aways. Listen, doctor…” she trailed off, her left eye twitching. She met his eyes and there was an earnestness in hers that had nothing to do with the drug. “Is it true? Is he really…”

John nodded. His expression did not change. 

“Oh,” she said. Then, “he was always very kind to us.”  She flushed, as if caught doing something she shouldn’t, and quickly spun away before leading him further down the little beach. A lumpy shape covered by a  tarp and seagull droppings was tucked into the sand. The girl pulled the tarp away, struggling with the weight until John took the other side and together they ripped it off in a flutter of sand to reveal a small row boat. Rickety wooden oars were piled across the top. It had once been painted white, until time and weather had peeled most of the paint away and turned the remainders a dark grey. Lining the hull of the boat were stalks of stinging nettles, their spiky green leaves the brightest thing along the beach. John slipped off his bag, dropped it into the boat, and with the help of the girl pushed it into the water. He boarded with a heavy thump, took the oars into his hands and began to row downstream. The nettles clung to his clothes and pierced his skin, and soon he was covered in tiny cuts. He shrugged off the pain and continued to row even as pinpricks of blood seeped out to dot his clothes. 

The girl watched him until he disappeared in the wake of a large ferry, then sat back on the beach and pulled a syringe out of her pocket. She uncapped it and held it in her teeth as she rolled up her sleeve, then inserted the needle into the crook of her right arm and slowly pushed the plunger down.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

“There was an article in the paper today about Sherlock. It wasn’t flattering.”

It was some time after the funeral. Mycroft was back at Baker Street, having what had become a weekly tea with Mrs. Hudson. He sat on her pink couch in the fading light and glared into his tea cup while she watched him from the edge of an ancient arm chair. In another room a fresh white candle burned in an empty window. 

“And?” Mrs. Hudson asked, stirring sugar into her tea with a small spoon. 

Mycroft grit his teeth. “I let it run.”

“Good,” she said, taking a sip of her tea with a sad smile. “You’re learning.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

John had a terrible fever. 

He had rowed for a long time down the river Thames. The cold and the nettles in the boat had left his skin chapped and bleeding. By the time he escaped London proper and arrived at the edge of the woods and hid his boat and traveled through the forest and found the cabin and used the dirty key given to him by the girl, he was pale and sweating and starting to see colors that did not exist. The door opened with a rusty whine. Inside was an ancient cot and a dirt floor. In one corner was a pile of canned goods of indeterminable age and other food packaged to survive the end of the world. John collapsed on the cot, pulled out his water and field kit. He chugged half the bottle before fumbling open the canvas pouch and pulling out two paracetemol. He threw them back, finished his water, and fell shivering onto the cot. There was a scratchy wool blanket on the foot of the mattress. John pulled it over him and curled into a ball and almost opened his mouth to cry for help before he remembered. He clamped his jaw shut and slapped a hand over his mouth and in his head he chanted “don’t speak don’t speak don’t speak” so that even in the height of his sickness he would keep silent. 

He fell into a fevered sleep, and he dreamed; in his dream the sky was raining black feathers, and Sherlock stood naked beneath the yellow street lamp in front of 221 Baker Street. John came up to him, put his hand on Sherlock’s face, sighed when Sherlock turned to place a kiss against his palm. There was no sound in the dream but Sherlock’s lips were moving and he thought that Sherlock was saying his name. Then the feathers stopped being soft. They turned to black glass and as they fell they sliced Sherlock’s skin to ribbons, and then he was bleeding and John tried to cover him with his own body but the feathers fell through him as if he were the ghost, not Sherlock. Sherlock’s lips moved again ( _John, I love you, John, it was all for you, John, John, John_ ) and then the light left his eyes and dream Sherlock was as dead as the real one. 

John woke with a start, his hand clasped across his mouth, tears streaming down his face. He looked down and saw blood on his shaking hands, and it took a moment to remember that it came from the stinging nettles. His fever had broken in his sleep. He was in Sherlock’s secret cabin, the place of last resort Sherlock had shared with him just once before he died ( _in the unlikely event that Moriarty wins, John, or the apocalypse arrives before we are ready. Just because it is improbable does not mean it is impossible, don’t be so_ boring, _acknowledging the possibility of plagues or zombies is perfectly healthy_ ).

John pushed off the blankets and stumbled over to the pile of supplies, looking for water. When he sat down he saw that packets of Sherlock’s favorite Jammy Dodgers outweighed the tins of beans and nutritious food. He picked up a packet, turning it over in trembling hand, then crumpled around it, sobbing, holding the biscuits like a frightened child with a teddy bear. 

When the sobs stopped he wiped his eyes and nose on the sleeve of his jumper.  Then he opened the crushed packet in his lap and ate the few biscuits that were still whole. When he felt stronger John stood and emptied his rucksack neatly in a spare corner. Hefting the empty bag over his shoulder, he left the cabin and began to walk back to the boat filled with stinging nettles that waited for him on the bank of the river. Along the way he passed several stands of stinging nettles. At each one he paused to pick as many stalks as he could, blood running down his hands to stain the green leaves with crimson.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Later he finds an old pot and fills it with boiling water. He soaks the nettles until the useless flesh rots from their stalks and all that is left are long fibers. They cut his hands as he lays them out to comb them into the pliant strands that he will eventually spin into thread. The next morning, and every morning after that, he gathers nettles; and every afternoon he soaks them; and in the evenings he twists them together in his ruined fingers and repeats this day in and day out until the summer ends and he has a pile of nettle thread sitting in the corner of Sherlock’s cabin. 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

There was a dirty young man sitting next to Mrs. Hudson’s front door on a square of cardboard ripped from a pizza box. An ugly dog named Trevor huddled against his side. Mrs. Hudson, on her way to a nearby park, stopped beside the man and rummaged through her purse. She pulled out a small plastic bag filled with biscuits, then dropped them in the man’s lap and patted Trevor on the head before stepping into the street.  

Fifteen minutes later Mrs. Hudson sat on a bench beside a pond and threw crumbs to the pigeons that gathered at her feet. When the bread was gone she sighed and thought about days past where she would have laughed at the old woman stereotypical enough to sit on a park bench and feed the birds. One of the pigeons wandered too close to her foot and she kicked at it half-heartedly, then immediately felt bad. To compensate, she pulled a biscuit out of her pocket and set it on the ground with a muttered, “Sorry, dear.”

There was a loud caw from behind her, and the pigeons took off in a flutter. Mrs. Hudson sat a little straighter and tightened her hand around her pocket book as a large raven landed on the ground in front of her. There was something alarming about the bird. It tilted its head, beady eyes too intelligent and too wild to belong to the city. 

“Hello, you,” she murmured, and leaned forward. The bird shone even in the dull ditchwater light of London in the summer. It hopped from one foot to the other and everything in its bearing screamed _wild_ and _unbalanced_ and Mrs. Hudson got the sense that this bird would be an arrogant bastard if not for the insanity that seemed to leak off its glossy feathers. She stopped breathing. Trembling, she reached a hand out, snatching her fingers back when it launched itself into the sky with a violent caw. When it was out of sight Mrs. Hudson stood; and then she was running, her bag clunking against her side, her sensible shoes keeping her from tripping on the pavement. People stopped to watch the crazy old lady hobble past them, but Mrs. Hudson was panicked and took no notice. She kept going until she reached the end of Baker Street, and even then did not stop until she was in front of 221 and could look up and see the candle burning in Sherlock’s window. The orange light was too small against the gray smoky air of London but it burned nonetheless. She let out a sob of relief and pressed a hand to her heart. 

Across the street a raven landed on top of a lamp post. It shifted twice, its claws digging into the metal and sending flurries of black paint to land on the sidewalk below. 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Tiger, Tiger, Burning Bright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock jumps, and from the moment his body hits the pavement, John Watson does not say a word. There is a way to bring Sherlock back from the dead, if John is strong enough-and Moriarty doesn't beat him to it.
> 
> A Sherlock fusion fic with Hans Christian Andersen's "Wild Swans."

  


  


 

The phone in Mycroft’s office rang at three thirty in the morning. He was, of course, working; a particularly obvious power play from a party in the East required his special brand of skills to mitigate. Outside it was still dark. A cold draft leaked through the window and chilled the mug of tea sitting beside Mycroft’s laptop.

He picked up the phone on the third ring, his attention still focused on the screen in front of him.  

“Mycroft?”

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson.”

“I…well, I hate to be a bother, but…”

“Yes?”

“I think we have a problem.”

There was a pause. Mycroft’s steady breathing filtered over the phone, the muffled clacks of fingers on a keyboard. Silence again.

“I see. I’ll be over as soon as I can.”

Mycroft arrived ten minutes later. He stepped out of the town car, Anthea and her blackberry just behind, and paused in front of 221 Baker Street. Trevor and his homeless human were gone. Stretched out in their customary spot was the limp body of a Bengal tiger. It was a magnificent animal, ten feet from nose to tail, its orange stripes a last point of brightness in a sea of gray. Dried blood crusted the fur around its right eye socket where someone with truly remarkable aim had put a bullet in its head.

Mycroft took his umbrella and nudged the tiger’s paw, noting that a claw had been crudely hacked away. He was calculating how long he had before the street became active, which CCTV recordings to examine and delete, how many men it would take to remove the body and clean the blood, and the likelihood that the bullet would lead him back to the gun that had fired it and the man that had pulled the trigger. He nudged the tiger once more, taking in the patterns of its fur (free born), the patch of reddish clay on its right paw (Bangladesh), the snarl fixed on its face (it had known death was coming).

Mrs. Hudson opened her door. She clutched a purple dressing gown tight around her neck, her usual flutter replaced with a deeper dread.

“I had a horrible dream last night,” she said. Her voice was rough with overuse, or screaming. “The street was covered in feathers and...and blood, and something was watching me from the shadows.” There had also been a candle, in her dream; she’d carried it cupped in her hand, keeping the flame alive even as she slipped and her breath came quick with terror. The thing in the shadows leapt upon her. Mrs. Hudson remembered the candle falling through the air and landing in a pool of her own blood. The flame had flickered and died just as the monster behind her sunk its claws into her back. 

She did not share this with Mycroft; he wasn’t ready.

The man himself frowned. Behind him, Anthea was already dealing with the mess, her fingers flying over the keys of her Blackberry. Mycroft took in the angles of the street, calculated how many more men he could place in the buildings around 221 Baker Street, and exactly how much manpower it would take to keep Mrs. Hudson safe. He considered moving her from Baker Street but discarded the idea almost immediately. She would not be willing to leave, and he was unwilling to force her.

“John must be warned,” he said after a minute of calculations.

Mrs. Hudson nodded. “Yes. But Mycroft…”

For the first time since Sherlock’s death, Mycroft saw a wavering in Mrs. Hudson. That would not do. He gave her a Holmsian smile, and inclined his head.

“Mrs. Hudson, would I be able to trouble you for a cup of tea?”

  
  


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* * *

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By five thirty AM Mycroft was on his way back to his office, a dead tiger stuffed into the trunk of his unmarked town car and a baggie of Mrs. Hudson’s biscuits in his breast pocket. He’d left her puttering around the flat, a packet of bread crumbs in one hand.

“Going to feed the pigeons?” he’d asked.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head. Tea had revived her. The earlier weakness was gone.

“Something like that, dear. I like to tempt the birds to stay on the roof sometimes. It can get a bit lonely in here.”

Mycroft nodded, and exited as she started up the stairs to Sherlock and John’s flat.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  


****

John crouched over the bank of the river and carefully scraped at the underside of his chin with his pocket knife. An upwards stroke, lather gathering on the edge of his blade; he flicked his hand and the white suds fell into the water to swirl downstream. John repeated this motion until his face was as clean as the knife could make it and then he sat down and listened to the silence and thought of how the skull in 221B would look sitting on the sand beside him. He wore dirty jeans and a sweater that had turned from cream to gray, the sleeves brown at the ends with dried blood and smeared plant matter. The sun was just beginning to rise, the predawn light washing away all color. A small stand of nettles still grew a few feet down the bank. Their leaves glittered with frost.

It had been six months and twelve days since Sherlock had plummeted from the roof of Bart’s, and in that time John had not spoken a word. Half of the cottage was filled with soaking nettles and one fourth with nettle thread and the last quarter John used to twine the fibers together. He was almost ready to begin weaving. That would be his task in the winter, when the cold killed the last of the nettle stands.

The quiet splash and wooden creak of a rowboat filtered through the chilled air. John turned sharply towards the sound, right hand tightening on the handle of his knife while the other reached towards the gun tucked into his belt at the small of his back. The boat pulled into view. John did not relax when he saw the homeless man from Baker Street, but he did pull his hand away from his gun.

The boat drew closer. Inside the boat was also an ugly dog. The dog barked twice, greeting John, then leapt out to run circles around him. John smiled and scratched Trevor behind the ear as the homeless man beached his boat and stepped onto the shore.

“Something’s happened,” the man said, shifting uncomfortably in the grey light of dawn. He was tall and awkward in a patched woolen overcoat and gloves with the fingers torn off. John grew still, his hands perfectly steady. The silence in the clearing became stronger.

The homeless man reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a yellowed claw the size of a baby’s fist. He dropped it into John’s outstretched palm.

“Mrs. Hudson’s alright,” the homeless man went on. “And that brother o’ his, wotsis face. But there’s something stalkin’ Baker Street. Something dangerous.”

John would have liked to ask questions- _what was it_  and _how close did it get_ and maybe just _isn’t it hard enough already?_ Instead he tightened his scarred hand around the claw. The ivory bit into the center of his palm, the pain familiar and comforting. He looked up to the homeless man who had traveled so far to bring him this warning and that was when he heard the rustling in the bushes. Danger rolled into the clearing. Trevor began to growl, then howled and ran whimpering in the opposite direction. John stuffed the claw in his pocket and reached for his gun just as a muffled shot exploded into the clearing.

He dropped to the ground and began to crawl to the homeless man, who had a twitching hand pressed to his throat and was laying in a slowly spreading pool of crimson. The man was still by the time John reached up and put a finger to his pulse.

This had all happened in a manner of seconds, and this John was not the same as the doctor that had huddled over wounded and dying and dead comrades in Afghanistan, that had insisted he could save those that were already gone. The man in front of him would not be coming back without the great sacrifice that John had already promised to Sherlock. John left him.

There was another rustle, and a bullet grazed John’s cheekbone just beneath his eye. Ignoring the pain and the blood dripping down his cheek John rolled and lurched to his feet. He took off across the sand and fired three shots towards the trees in the direction the bullet had come from, until he reached a large oak tree and threw himself behind its broad trunk. He was breathing hard but his hands did not tremble and everything was clearer than it had been in a long time, boiled down like this to John and a man in the trees with a gun. He knew that he should have been dead. A sniper that could kill the other man without making a sound and send a bullet whizzing past John’s face would have had no trouble shooting him on the run or during the precious seconds he’d wasted seeing if the other man were still alive. This was a game. John was being warned.

There was a feral snarl, a primal sound that sent an involuntary shiver down John’s back even as he calmly checked his pockets for extra ammo and took stock of his surroundings. The rustle again. A sound like something heavy being dragged through the brush, and then a faint noise like the beginnings of a growl. John tightened his fingers around the trigger, held his breath, and leaned around the edge of the trunk.

A bullet whizzed by his head, and John pulled back, pressing himself against the bark. The large thing on the other side of the trees snarled again, and as it snarled the sound change into a laugh. A man’s laugh. Something that might have been his name circulated in the air and John felt anger rise in him and with a last breath huffed out his nose threw himself around the trunk.

There was nothing there for him to shoot.

John studied the line of trees before him, the river, the bank on the far side, and saw nothing. There was a sense of emptiness. Whoever had fired at him, whoever had killed the homeless man and toyed with John was gone.

The trees rustled as an icy breeze shifted through the canopy. It was coming from the south, the direction of the cabin. On the edge of the wind was the harsh, acrid scent of smoke. Looking up, John saw a thick column of black smoke rising into the sky above the trees. Fear slammed an icy fist into his stomach, and, gun in hand, John took off at a run for the cabin, understanding with a brutally cold detachment why he’d been delayed at the river.

John heard the crackle and thump of the fire before he saw it. He burst into the clearing with his arm thrown across his face as a futile block against the smoke. The cottage was a dancing blaze of light. Fire licked the walls and curled on the thatch roof and sent sparks bursting into the air like roman candles. John ran for the door but was pushed back by a wall of heat stronger than brick. This did not stop him trying. Tears rolled down his face as he choked on the smoke and kept trying to break through the heat, to enter the house and rescue the months of thread and blood that was burning in the center of the blaze.

He didn’t give up until the roof caved in on the cottage. The resultant blast of boiling air shoved him to the ground on the other side of the clearing and kept him there. As he curled onto his side and coughed up black, all John could think of was Sherlock and how bored he would be in whatever passed for death, or wherever he’d ended up. He saw days of deep depression on the couch in their living room, saw the barely contained despair that would creep on Sherlock during those in-between times, and wondered how much worse it would be now when he didn’t even have John to distract him.

 _(I need to_ work _, I’m going mad. Find me a murder. It feels like my skin is crawling and dying at the same time, John this is intolerable. John I can’t see anymore, John, John, I need you,_ John _—)_

Sherlock’s voice echoed in his head as he lay on the ground and listened to his world burn. The house was a pile of glowing embers when John finally stood. Hands shaking, he tucked his gun back into his waistband and melted into the woods. Sometime later he appeared at the side of the river, in a spot upstream from where the homeless man’s blood was still leaking into the water. The sense of emptiness remained. The killer who had lurked in the trees had done his work; the cottage was gone.

He would have to start over again, and he would have to wait until the spring, when the stinging nettles would return, and in the meantime Sherlock would continue to _not be there_.

John drank until his stomach hurt, only his medical training preventing him from drinking more than that. There was a noise downstream; he turned, hand going to his gun, stopping only when he saw Trevor approaching the dead man. The dog whined, a pitiful noise, and when he reached the homeless man he began to lick his face. When the skin was washed clean John buried the homeless man as best he could in the soft earth with no shovel. Trevor watched from the sand where he lay with his snout between his paws.

The boat that had carried the dead man was smashed to pieces. Several of them bore claw marks. John pulled the claw out of his pocket and tested it against one of the scarred planks of wood. It matched.

On top of the pile was a cream-colored envelope of thick card stock. John picked it up, leaving soot and dirt smudges on the paper. He opened it and pulled out a small piece of paper. Written on the scrap in bold strokes was a date and a time. Beneath that was a message. There was no signature.

He tucked the paper into his sweater to sit beside the needle and the comb, and then he sat for a long time. In one hand he held the tiger’s claw. In the other he had nothing but the scars on his skin. His hands trembled. He thought of Sherlock, and the pattern his blood had made on the sidewalk. He thought of the pain of the nettles cutting into his skin, of the gun at the back of his belt, how easy it would be to follow his detective one last time. But the tiger claw was sharp and it cut his palm, and he knew that there would only be one victor here, and if it wasn’t Sherlock then it would be the other. He thought of Mrs. Hudson in their flat and the candle that would still be burning and what would happen to her if Moriarty was allowed to win.

John’s hands stilled. He stood, oriented himself North using the scraps of daylight breaking through the trees, and began to walk. Trevor stood up from the beach and began to trot a few paces behind him. John did not look up again, and so he did not see the birds that now stood guard as he left to continue his impossible task. Their glittering eyes fixed on his back, sparrows and hawks and pigeons and crows sharing space on branches and nestled up to enemies and allies alike, a silent congregation in the morning light. The sun rose. One by one the birds left.

  
  
  
  


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_December 21st_

_Next year, Baker Street._

_**** _

_Did you think you were the only one?_

  


 

 

* * *

_****  
**** _  


_**** _

_**** _

“I’m worried,” Mrs. Hudson confessed, stirring her tea softly with a tiny silver spoon. “I thought it would be done by now.”

She and Mycroft sat in John & Sherlock’s living room. A fire blazed behind them, while Christmas lights twinkled on every spare surface in the messy room. They’d begun having their teas up there when November had melted into December, and now a small pile of brightly colored paper sat discarded on the table between them. Mycroft had given Mrs. Hudson a locket with a picture of child-Sherlock inside. Sherlock had been no older than five when the picture was taken, and he wore a black pirate hat over his curls and an imperious expression. The locket was also a tracking device.

Mrs. Hudson had run her fingers over the gold when Mycroft clasped the chain behind her neck and given him a watery hug. He’d returned it with significant discomfort. She’d knitted him a scarf in soft lambswool died mauve. Mycroft wore it over his suit, and Mrs. Hudson had pronounced it “very handsome.”

That morning another tiger (Siberian, zoo-born, caught unawares by a bullet in the brain) had been found dead in its enclosure at the London zoo. A red velvet Christmas bow was tied around its neck. It was the tenth tiger found since the first had appeared on Mrs. Hudson’s front stoop. Newspapers, originally treating the deaths as bizarre coincidences, were beginning to search farther afield to explain why tigers from over four different continents had appeared dead on the streets of London.

Mycroft took a long sip of his tea, carefully not looking at Mrs. Hudson. “I could find him, you know. It would not be difficult.”

Mrs. Hudson shook her head, her expression immediately hardening. “You can’t.”

“I assure you, I can,” Mycroft said, meeting her eyes.

“Perhaps,” and the iron lady of Britain was back in Mrs. Hudson’s place. “But you will not.”

Mycroft frowned. “Mrs. Hudson, I-“

He broke off. A soft tapping noise filtered through the flat. Mrs. Hudson set her tea down and walked over to the window. A raven was perched on the ledge outside. It was bigger than normal, and it hopped awkwardly on one leg, as if injured. It was using its beak to rap against the glass.

“Get a towel,” she hissed at Mycroft, face pale, and threw the window open. A gust of cold air blew in as the raven let out an ear splitting caw and tumbled awkwardly into the room. Mrs. Hudson slammed the window shut and made soothing noises at the wounded bird that flapped its wings, panicked, on her floor.

“A towel, Mycroft!” she said again, with more force. Mycroft hadn’t moved, caught perhaps in the insanity of letting a wild animal into the flat. Now he went into the bathroom and did as Mrs. Hudson asked.

Mrs. Hudson grabbed the cloth and threw it over the panicking animal. She took hold of the bird through the towel, pressing its wings to its side and wrapping the cloth efficiently around it before it had the chance to cut her with its beak.

“Shh, love,” she murmured, and carried the bird over to the fire. Sitting down, she cradled the cawing, shaking bundle in her lap, continuing to coo at it until it stilled.

“Mrs. Hudson, I don’t think that’s wise,” Mycroft said, when she began to peel back the layers of towel.

“Hush. This is important. He’s injured.”

As if the bird were a child, Mrs. Hudson gently peeled back the last layer to reveal the bird. It was panting, beak open as its breast heaved beneath her hand. Wild eyes spun in its head, like small black pools.

“Now, you are going to be calm, and you are not going to bite me,” she said in a stern, motherly voice. The bird obeyed, lying still as she pulled back another layer of towel. It now lay fully exposed on her lap. She ran a careful finger down each of its wings, finding nothing wrong. But a shallow gash had been scratched across its chest, and when she touched its left leg the bird let out a shriek.

Mycroft was transfixed. There was something strange about the bird; it was unnatural, other worldly, and yet so very familiar.

“Get me the first aid kit from the bathroom, please, Mycroft,” Mrs. Hudson said, running a soothing hand down the raven’s wing. This shook Mycroft out of his daze. He went to the bathroom and opened the ancient medicine cabinet, grabbed the white metal box inside, and brought it back to Mrs. Hudson. He watched carefully as she pulled out hydrogen peroxide and cleaned the wound on the bird’s chest. The raven let her bandage it; nor did it savage Mrs. Hudson with its beak when she set its leg using matchsticks and gauze. She gave it water in droplets from the tip of her finger, and when she was done, Mrs. Hudson placed the raven on a cushion in Sherlock’s chair. It nudged her finger with its beak, a surprisingly tender gesture, before falling back to the cushion.

Mycroft hadn’t moved. He stood in his three piece suit still wearing the scarf Mrs. Hudson had knit for him and watched the landlady care for the bird. When the bird was sleeping, Mrs. Hudson stood and looked at Mycroft. He cleared his throat.

“I won’t look for John,” he said, his tone unusually shaky. “I…understand, now.”

Mrs. Hudson gave him a warm smile and put her hand on his arm. “Thank you. Now, come upstairs with me a moment. I have something I need to show you.”

He followed her. On their way to the stairs she paused by an end table and picked up a box of matches.

  
  
  
  


* * *

****

 

 

They did not meet for tea again for some time. An international crisis of at least a six on Mycroft’s scale of disasters interrupted the normal running of the British government. It was a month after Christmas, and Mycroft stood in an empty warehouse leaning against his umbrella, the civil servant-cum-spy responsible for a disastrous information leak tied to a chair in front of him.

“This really is a sensitive matter,” Mycroft said, voice dangerously calm. “It would be best for everyone if you would cooperate.”

The spy gritted his teeth and shook his head. “Torture at your hands would be better than what would happen should I fail.”

Mycroft smiled, all lip and no teeth, hand tightening around his umbrella handle. “Is that so?”

As a rule, Mycroft was not a man for torture. He found it barbaric and, in the vast majority of cases, completely unnecessary. However, he did not often feel the need to share this truth with his quarry. Mycroft’s smile widened as he proceeded to detail exactly where the spy’s family lived, including the mistress and child he’d hidden in a small village in South America. He was just going into detail about the child’s particular medical requirements -- a heart condition needing access to certain advanced medicines that just might not make their next shipment -- when his attention was diverted by a loud banging far above their heads. A raven was battering itself against the glass, the animal frantic. Mycroft paled.

He whipped out his umbrella, smacking the spy in the head and rendering him unconscious. Before the spy’s chin hit his chest Mycroft was turning to the door in what a lesser man would have been considered a run.

Outside Anthea was waiting with an unmarked town car. Mycroft jumped in and it pulled away from the curb. The raven followed overhead, easily keeping pace as they drove past abandoned buildings and into the grey city. Tourists blended with the disdainful inhabitants of London and few took notice of the black car that raced through traffic lights and around buses until it reached 221 Baker Street.  

If Sherlock had been there he would have teased his brother who huffed and puffed as he threw open the door of Baker Street and ran up the stairs, calling for Mrs. Hudson as he went. The black raven flew through the open door behind him. It cawed overhead, flying awkwardly up through Sherlock’s living room and into his bedroom where it landed on the bedpost. Mycroft followed.

The candle in the window had burned to a tiny stub and was almost dead. Crumpled on the floor was Mrs. Hudson, her hair in disarray, dressing gown tied over an old pair of pajamas. Her frail skin was bright red from the neck upwards, a bluish tinge on her lips and her nostrils and the tips of her fingers. Clutched in her right hand was a long white candle meant to replace the one that guttered in the window.

The raven screamed from the bed behind him as Mycroft leaned down and touched her forehead with shaking fingers. Later he would bury her close to Sherlock’s grave, and he would make sure that the locket he had given Mrs. Hudson for Christmas entered the coffin with her. At that moment, though, he pulled the candle from her stiff hand. He lit it from the dying flames of the one in the window, and removed the first, and replaced it with the new candle. The fire burned bright and orange and every time the raven flapped its wings the flames flickered as if they were dancing.


	3. In Which The Candle is Snuffed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock jumps, and from the moment his body hits the pavement, John Watson does not say a word. There is a way to bring Sherlock back from the dead, if John is strong enough-and Moriarty doesn't beat him to it.
> 
> A Sherlock fusion fic with Hans Christian Andersen's "Wild Swans."

The door to the Angry Dog pushed open, letting in a wet blast of air. A bedraggled young man in a yellow Macintosh and mud-stained work boots shoved his way inside, slamming the door shut on a chorus of loud complaints. He stamped his feet twice on the rug, shrugging off the Macintosh and hanging it on the already crowded coatrack next to the door. Mud spattered the sweater and jeans he wore underneath. 

He made his way to the bar, winding between tables full of farmers and craftsmen who’d gathered for a break from the cold and the wet outside. The bar was dingy and well used, but the wood gleamed with a comfortable layer of polish, and the barman, a stocky man with shock white hair, was already pouring a glass of scotch.

“Evenin,’ Will.” The bartender spoke with a thick Scottish brogue as he slid the glass across the wood into Will’s open hand. Will nodded his thanks, taking a long sip before setting it back down. “Still comin’ down out there?” 

“Aye,” Will shot back. “Cat’s ’n dogs.”

“Humph.” 

Someone called the bartender to the other end of the bar, leaving Will alone with his scotch. He leaned back against the bar, idly studying the rest of the room. His eyes slid over noisy tourists and local workers who’d stopped in on their way home for a quiet pint and a bit of a chat. There was a bearded man in the corner. He came in once a week, never said a word, and had a pint in while he studied the newspaper. An ugly dog slept at his feet beneath the table. Will had seen the man every week for the past month, ever since May had begun to soak them with her temperamental weather. 

“Need anything?” The bartender had returned to Will’s end of the bar. Will shook his head, then gestured towards the corner of the room, towards the strange, silent man.

“What’s his deal, then?”

The bartender grunted. “Walked in here first Sunday o’ March, didn’t speak a word. Figure ‘im for a mute, honestly. Odd fellow. And, well…” the bartender leaned in, and Will, intrigued, followed. “You should see ‘is hands,” the bartender whispered. “Scarred up to here,” he indicated on his wrist, “an some o’ the scratches still bleeding.”

“How’d he get ‘em?” 

“Dunno. Strange business, that one.” The bartender straightened, went back to wiping his glass clean. “Stay away if ya can.”

“Ta,” Will answered, then drained his scotch and gestured for another. 

Some time and a few drinks later, Will saw the quiet man stand up, fold his newspaper neatly, and walk out of the pub. The ugly dog followed at his heel. Will stood up and followed. He waited inside the door for a few moments, letting the man and his dog get some distance away, before dashing into the storm outside. He left the yellow macintosh hanging on the coat rack. 

Will followed the pair as they wound their way through town seemingly unconcerned with the pounding rain and howling winds. He followed them down empty streets and soon out of town itself. He paused when he realized they were wandering onto the moors but curiosity had bitten him and there was something strange about the man and his dog. So he followed, always some distance behind, losing them a few times before finding them again. 

Will paused next to a small hill. He’d lost sight of the man and his dog some distance before, and now he stood frustrated and cold and deeply regretting his decision to leave the warm pub. Then he felt something press against the back of his head. Beneath the sound of the storm he heard the low, dangerous sound of a dog’s growl. 

“I’m…I’m sorry,” he stuttered. The gun did not move. “I didn’ mean any harm, I swear. I was just curious.” 

Water ran down his face, blurring his vision. He didn’t dare wipe it away. They stood in the storm like that, Will trembling, then suddenly the gun wasn’t there any more and the noise from the dog was gone. When he got up the courage to turn around he was alone on the moors with the storm. In the distance he could see the soft lights of the village. Will slid to the ground on boneless legs and sat there in the cold rain until he had the courage to go home again. 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

A little girl walked barefoot beside the ocean. It was growing dark, but the sand held enough heat left over from the July sun that it was still warm beneath her toes. In the distance a clump of rocks marked the end of the beach. She made her way over to them, stopping when she saw a dog racing to the water, where it barked insistently at the waves. She crept closer, stopping again when she saw a man sitting on the beach with his back against a large rock. There were holes in his jumper and he had a wild beard and dirt all over his clothes. At his side was an open bag, and large, green plants were piled in his lap. He was stripping the leaves from the plants. He discarded them in a pile to his right, then placed the stalks back in the bag. Watching him, the girl thought of the small chapel in her village. It was crumbling with a hole in the roof and weeds growing through the floor, but every Sunday they gathered there to pray. Once, after she complained about the ugly building, her priest told her that god spoke strongest through his broken things. 

She watched the dirty man for a few minutes, until a distant voice called her back to her home. 

John had seen her from down the beach. She was the first person he’d seen in almost a week; the urge to call out, to make some gesture, was almost overwhelming. He wrapped his hand around a fresh cut on the palm of his left hand, squeezing hard, letting the pain and the blood fill his senses until the urge passed. Trevor licked at his hand, whining, until John patted him on the head and threw a bit of driftwood for the dog to fetch. He was watching Trevor run when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. John turned, expecting to see the little girl again. Instead, he saw a ghost. 

Sherlock was walking down the beach. Naked as he’d been in John’s dreams, pale skin illuminated from within, as the moon, as alabaster beneath a secret light. John stumbled to his feet, nettle leaves and sand tumbling from his lap to pile on the beach. He opened his mouth to speak the name, only stopping himself by slapping a palm against his mouth and pressing hard until his teeth bruised the skin on the inside of his lips. He relished the pain. Sherlock might not have been real but at least John was not dreaming. 

Sherlock did not stop until he was standing in front of John, and then he was looking him over with eyes like the channel after a storm, gray green and penetrating, as quick to _observe_ as John remembered. He reached out and took the hand John was not using to keep silent in his own.  Ran long fingers over the scarred wreck of John’s skin. His touch was the wind given form; he traced the calloused lines of John’s palm, the gnarls and snags on the pads of John’s fingers, each touch intensified to near pain after months without contact. John shivered. What unblemished skin he had left prickled with goosebumps.

“You have lost much of the feeling in your hands. You may still fire a gun, but you will never practice medicine again.” Sherlock’s voice had not changed save for the fact that it was so quiet. Fresh tears poured down John’s face at the sound of his baritone, turned light, almost insubstantial. It shook John in his bones. He felt broken and yet stronger than he had ever been. “Was it worth it?”

John wanted to tell him _yes,_ to scream in his face, to take this vision and shake him until Sherlock stopped this silly pretense of death and came back to him. But John did not speak, and Sherlock, grim, smiled.

John looked down and saw black feathers of the thinnest glass imbedded in the skin of Sherlock’s arm. A sea breeze came and ruffled the glass filling the air with soft clinking chimes. As the feathers fanned before the wind they peeled back layers of Sherlock’s skin, revealing the blood and veins and bones beneath. 

“It is almost time. Danger has already found Baker Street.” Sherlock’s wind fingers tightened on John’s. “You’re almost done. It will be finished in the winter, one way or another.”

He stepped forward and wrapped insubstantial arms that rustled with glass around John’s shoulders. Brought his lips to John’s ear, and whispered a secret that turned John as pale as the dead detective. Then Sherlock stepped back. A stronger breeze came in from the ocean. It scattered Sherlock to the wind, leaving John alone on the beach, his hand still sealed over his mouth. He slid to his knees in the sand, finally releasing his mouth, staring at the place Sherlock had been. He did not move until Trevor came barking back, the stick of driftwood in his mouth, nudging John until he roused himself and threw the stick back down the beach. 

John looked at his hand as Trevor ran barking after his quarry. Across his palm was a streak of blood not his own. John pressed a kiss to the spot. He pulled the bag of nettles back to his lap and returned to his task with blood staining his lips. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

November. 

John entered London from the north, slid in through a back alley that stank of garbage and soot, Trevor keeping pace at his side. The streets were emptier than he remembered. People avoided each other’s eyes more than normal. 

At one point, John walked past a murder scene. The air was full of the hiss and crackle of radios, the clumping of feet, and  behind the white noise the heavy thrum of silence that only came when a man was dead on the ground. Inspector Lestrade stood outside, looking older than he should, smoking a cigarette while yellow caution tape shook in the wind behind him. He stamped his feet to get the feeling back and didn’t recognize John when he walked in front of him. 

There was fear on the streets. Avenues entirely devoid of people. But there were other signs that something was wrong. Black feathers gathered in the gutters and in piles beneath window sills. There was a door every few streets with claw marks slashed across it. Dead cats lay curled in a small, sad balls on the edges of the sidewalk. More than once, John had to stop and pull Trevor away from the pathetic little bodies.  

A few times John felt certain that something was watching him from the shadows. First Trevor would begin to bark, and then John would heard a growl, like the growl in the forest; and each time pigeons would descend, or a sharp-mouthed sparrow, and once a whole flock of crows. They would be loud and flutter like small whirlwinds, and soon after John would continue unmolested. 

A homeless child sidled up to John. She grinned at him in a fearless way that demanded he return the gesture. He did. She led him to a ladder hidden on the side of a building, which led to the roof. John looked up, dubiously, then down to the dog at his side.

The girl looked from John to the dog, then nodded. “Not a problem, that. Wait here.”

She disappeared in the back of the alley. A few minutes later she returned with a long strip of cloth in her hand that might have originally been a shower curtain. She showed John how to make a sling, then helped him hold Trevor to his back, wrapping the curtain between John’s leg’s and around Trevor until he was as secure as possible. Then she began to climb, not waiting as John, clumsy with the unhappy, squirming animal at his back, followed. The girl led him up onto the roof; and from then on they traveled on the tops of buildings, jumping over narrow gaps, ducking down whenever the little girl thought someone might be watching, Trevor curiously quiet but not in the least still. 

“It’s safer up here,” she said, then easily jumped a two foot gap between buildings. John followed with less grace and barely kept from rolling onto Trevor. “The monsters can’t climb up to the roofs, just the birds, and I like them.” A pigeon chose that moment to coo at them, and the little girl giggled. 

Soon they were at Baker Street. The girl led him down a fire escape hidden between their building and the next. When they reached the ground she helped him untie Trevor, then frowned up at him, arms akimbo, the giddy happiness from the roof gone as soon as her feet touched the soil. 

“The name’s Annie,” she said. There was a grim undercurrent to her voice; the sense of what she was capable of. “If you ever need something done.”

John nodded, and she left, disappearing back into London and leaving him alone with 221 Baker Street. Trevor ran ahead of him to nose at the doorway, whining pitifully at the spot he had once shared with the nameless man that lay dead in the forest.

Sherlock’s candle- their candle- was a cheerful orange glow in Sherlock’s bedroom window. John thought of Mrs. Hudson, of the faith she’d kept in him, in _them._ He swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat and raised a scarred hand to the door handle. It slid open at the slightest pressure, as if the building itself was welcoming him home. John, standing in the open doorway, was suddenly, terribly, tired. He squared his shoulders and stepped inside, braced for the overwhelming welcome he was sure Mrs. Hudson had prepared for him. John was dreading the moment he would have to hug her. To touch anyone seemed blasphemous, a betrayal to Sherlock, who was as alone as John. He thought of the beach and Sherlock’s skin like the wind and the taste of blood on his lips. Soon. It would be done soon. 

He came further inside, Trevor just behind, and the door gently closed behind him. The lights in Mrs. Hudson’s apartment were off. He walked through her front hall, her kitchen; hesitated at the door of her bedroom, gave a little knock, before stepping inside there as well. Her doily-chic room was neat as a pin. John wiped a finger across the top of her dresser, frowned at the thick layer of dust that coated his hand. The kitchen was the same, countertops empty, not a dish out of place, but a layer of dust over the furniture and a pile of unopened mail on the table. The air tasted stale. Everything was too still. 

John left her apartment and climbed up the long staircase to 221 B. He paused halfway up, his legs threatening to give out on him. He was going to step into their living room. Sherlock would not be there. He continued on, and with each step he reminded himself: Sherlock will not be sitting in his chair. Step. Sherlock will not be sulking on the couch. Step. Sherlock will not be blowing things up on the kitchen table, or taking too long to shower, or teasing him with the promise of a case, or sex. 

This door, like the other, slid open easily, and as John stepped into their apartment he froze. He had prepared himself for a place that would feel like Sherlock yet would not hold him. He was not prepared for Mycroft, sitting in Sherlock’s chair, a cup of tea in his hands and a fire blazing in the fireplace. 

“Hello, John,” Mycroft said. He gave him an empty smile. “Welcome home.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

If John could speak — _where is she, where is Mrs. Hudson, who has been keeping the candle lit —_ but John was silent. Mycroft’s presence could mean only one thing.

Mycroft nodded, his usual mask slipping for just a moment, laying sorrow bare to the world. 

“I’m sorry, John.” For once in his life Mycroft seemed sincere. “Heart attack. It was quick. She did not suffer.”

 He had seen too much to falter at that moment, but it was a close thing- the only thing that could have broken what was left of him. John stepped into the sitting room, dropped his bag to the side of his old arm chair, and sat down. The leather sighed beneath him, sending a cloud of dust into the air around him. He wiped a hand across his face. He felt his weariness, now. It was a louder presence in his bones. 

Across from him, Mycroft resumed his mask. Careful, poised; he slid a cup of tea across the table towards John, takes up his own with delicate motions. After a long moment, John looked across at him. Took up his cup of tea in trembling fingers, then sat it down again. Leaned back in his chair. Waited. 

“You want to know why I am here,” Mycroft said, his smile tight and bitter. “Why she chose me. After all, I betrayed Sherlock.”

John starts, and Mycroft’s smile tightens. 

“I suppose it’s been some time since you heard his name? Well. I betrayed Sherlock. And that will be my cross to bare. But at the present moment…” Mycroft’s smile loosened. He looked out across the room, towards the mantel, where a fire crackled with false cheer. A bit of dusty Christmas tinsel was still wrapped around the skull. “Mrs. Hudson was wiser than we knew. And very kind.”

John bit his lip to keep from shouting at Mycroft. His tremble disappeared as his fists clenched on his knees. Mycroft shook his head and set his tea cup down. Standing, he walked to the couch where he had laid his long black overcoat. He put it on with delicate motions, finishing with a long knitted scarf in maroon that he wrapped around his throat. Then casually added, “She left Baker Street to you.”

John looked up sharply, surprised. He swallowed hard, felt his eyes swell, bit his lip again to keep silent. He did not need to speak to ask the obvious question — why him? Why not Sherlock? Mycroft sent him a tightlipped smile. 

“Surely you don’t need me to explain.” John’s eyes flashed dangerously, and Mycroft relented. “Sherlock was never in need of a building, Doctor Watson. He needed a home. What would he do with Baker Street if it didn’t have you as well?”

 The simple truth of it hit John with a sudden flash of pain. Tears trickled down John’s cheeks. They caught in the weather beaten lines of his face and tangled in the course brush of his beard. 

“I’ll leave you now. I understand that the worst is yet to come.” Mycroft picked up his umbrella, walked towards the door. Stopped in front of John, his hand twitching as if he would rest it on John’s shoulder, but as neither of them would be quite comfortable with that easy intimacy, he let it drop once more. “It is all up to you. The candle as well. Good luck.”

The door clicked shut behind him. John could hear his steps retreating down the stairs, through Mrs. Hudson’s squeaky front hall, and out the door to the street below. There was a muffled slam as the outer door shut.  

John was left sitting in his customary armchair, his rucksack beside him, face and neck damp. The flat was silent. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He spent the next 20 days turning his nettle thread into fabric. Time blurred in a continuous loop of wake-shit-eat-weave-eat-sleep. John stopped only for Trevor, who demanded a walk twice a day, and to pilfer the cupboard for a too infrequent meal. Mycroft had stocked their pantry with tubes of Digestives and cans of food. Without them John would not have eaten. 

His hands no longer bled. The scar tissue had grown so thick that John constantly felt as if he were wearing leather gloves and his hands itched constantly through the muted skin.  

Slowly the nettle cloth took shape before him; too slowly. John was no weaver, and most of his efforts fell apart as soon as he put them down. Often he fell asleep with a length of rough cloth on the table, only to wake the next day and find that it had unraveled overnight. One day John looked up from his work to see that he had two days before the 21st. Two days in which to finish his task, and it was - to be frank - impossible. But John did not stop. The quiet loyalty that had carried him this far wouldn’t let him. 

The night of the 20th brought an icy wind and the first snow of the winter. John sat on the floor of their sitting room, the nettle cloth spread across his lap, Trevor curled up beside the fireplace. The flat smelled musty and unwashed and beneath that was a lingering scent of acid and gunpowder.

John put the cloth on the ground and brushed it with trembling fingers. It was rough, full of bumps and snags; in some places nettle thorns still reached out to pull at one’s skin others, while in others the cloth was so thin that it was translucent. It was ugly, and crude, and barely cohesive. But John knew, instinctively, that it was done. 

He cut off this train of thought, unable to entertain the idea of finality. He was not finished. The worst was yet to come. 

Shaking his head, John went to the kitchen and fetched a pair of scissors. He began to shape the fabric, turning it into a rough shirt. First he folded it in half and cut a hole out of the top big enough for a head full of hair. He pulled out the needle he had been carrying for over a year from his jumper and threaded it with nettle thread. Then he began to sew up the sides; slowly, carefully, handling the ugly cloth as if it were made of silk. He left just enough room for a pair of lanky arms, then carefully tied off the string, sticking his finger in the process. It would do. 

John stood and tapped his leg for Trevor. The dog jumped from his place by the fire and followed John cheerfully to the door, down the stairs. But John veered from the front door. He and Trevor went into Mrs. Hudson’s bedroom, where a dish of food and a bowl of water were waiting at the foot of the bed. John made the motion for _sit_ and closed the door, locking the dog inside. He ignored the  pitiful howls that echoed behind the wood. Instead, he climbed the stairs and re-entered his flat. Picked up the nettle shirt and draped it reverently over his arm and finally entered Sherlock’s bedroom. 

A soft sigh ghosted through the room as John entered. The candle, changed every day by Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft and finally, always, John, flickered in the window. He took a deep breath, bracing himself, then leaned forward and crushed the flame between the forefinger and thumb of his left hand. 

A moment passed, then two. A growl crept through the floor of the flat. There was a splintering; and then a crash; and the beast entered 221 Baker Street. 

 

 


	4. Death In Many Splendid Forms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock jumps, and from the moment his body hits the pavement, John Watson does not say a word. There is a way to bring Sherlock back from the dead, if John is strong enough-and Moriarty doesn't beat him to it.
> 
> A Sherlock fusion fic with Hans Christian Andersen's "Wild Swans."

A strange flock of birds landed on the roof of 221 Baker Street—sparrows and pigeons and city hawks and crows, all silent, the only sound the flap of their wings and the scrape of talons on brick. Inside 221B a fireplace exploded into flame, casting shadows that danced against the walls, as darkness began to slink up the stairs.

The darkness carried a gun in one hand, though it would not use it. Guns were forbidden. There were older ways to kill.  
And as the darkness crept, a wild-eyed raven landed on the ledge just outside the sitting room window and began to peck at the glass.

 

 

* * *

 

 

John did not stay in the dark of Sherlock’s room. There was no time left for waiting. The nettle shirt (bloody—frail—precious) hung over his arm as he turned and made his way towards the sitting room. He put a hand to his breast where once he’d carried a comb and needle and now held something infinitely more important. A gift. A secret.

Sebastian Moran was waiting for him. John froze in the doorway, bearded and filthy, knowing he had no weapon and it didn’t matter. The other stood in the shadows cast by the leaping fire, blond, lean, featureless but for a wide smile.

“Hello, John.” The voice too ordinary for the man it represented. “I have been waiting for you to finish. Waiting for something new. Hunting does grow dull.”

Still John did not speak. He stepped fully into the room and took the nettle shirt and laid it reverently on the arm of the sofa, then turned to his rival. Sebastian Moran shifted, coming closer to the fire. As he did so a long shadow twisted behind him. The shadow held the shape of a tiger.

“It will burn, John,” Sebastian said, smiling, pointing at the nettle shirt with the tip of his rifle. “In seconds it will burn, just like the cottage. But speak now, and you can still live. Tell me my name. Say it.”

John said nothing. He became aware of the frantic peck of the bird at the window. He could not look; he did not need to. Sherlock would be waiting on the ledge. If he wasn’t, this would all be for nothing. With his free hand John reached down and slid his hand into the filthy pocket of his jeans, holding something tight.

“Say my name,” Sebastian repeated. The smile did not falter. He lifted the gun and balanced it against his shoulder in one smooth motion, and fired. John did not move as the bullet whizzed past his cheek and shattered a picture frame behind him. Sebastian shifted; pointed the gun at John. He did not speak.

“Wise,” Sebastian said. Voice still too calm. Not natural. “So you know the rules.”

John nodded. His hand tightened in his pocket.

“Then we begin.”

The gun fell to the floor in a clatter of wood and metal. Sebastian threw himself at John; leapt over the dusty table and Sherlock’s armchair, blond hair like burnished gold in the firelight, eyes gleaming. John’s eyes widened and he caught a glimpse of the shadow behind Moran. The shadow was snarling like a tiger in heat and he realized who it was before Moran was on him. They fell to the ground and landed on John’s battle wounds and rolled together into chairs and tables and walls. John was smaller, older, weak from his task. Moran was strong with the feverish power of youth and madness. His tiger-shadow leapt about them as they struggled on the floor and roared with pleasure. The shadow’s eyes gleamed like flames.

Behind them the window shattered and a great raven swept into the room. John, distracted, looked up; his grip weakened on Moran. The younger man took advantage and shoved his arm agains’t John’s throat.

“You are old and tired and only one of us can win,” Moran snarled into John’s ear. He was strangling him, John’s face turning blue beneath the rough tangle of his beard. “Die, and let this fight be decided once and for all.”

John bared his teeth and pulled his hand from his pocket. With it came one of Mrs. Hudson’s knitting needles. He drove it into Moran’s arm and used his pained scream to push the younger man off of him and scramble backwards.

Moran snarled and reared up like a tiger himself. Behind him his shadow threw back its head and opened its mouth as if to attack. John pushed himself to his feet and brought up an arm to block Moran. The younger man sidestepped him and with the needle still stuck in his flesh knocked John into the far wall. They grappled again; Moran’s hands tight around John’s throat; John scrambling for the needle, for anything to push him off, to buy the seconds that he needed, so Sherlock—

“Argh!” Moran cried and fell backwards. Behind him the raven had landed, screeching, pecking at Moran’s tiger shadow. It held the shadow’s neck in its talons and attacked the shifting darkness of its throat. The shadow roared in silent pain.

“Off!” Moran, eyes rolling, lunged at the bird. The raven was thrown back into the couch, where it lay still. Possibly stunned. Moran himself was bleeding from deep furloughs in his neck. Behind him, the tiger shadow roared again in pain or anger but there was also the sense, the strange sense, that it was enjoying itself.

Moran wrenched the needle from his shoulder and flung it into the fire which jumped in response like a tidal wave of flame. John, coughing on the carpet, struggled to stand. He had his hand in his breast pocket now. Pulled something out.

“You’re dead. Finished,” Moran snarled. His smile returned. The tiger shadow leapt and danced behind him as the flames began to creep from the fireplace and up the walls. “It was a noble battle and your magics were old and good but not good enough. Mine are better. Blood will always be stronger.”

The smile widened. There was red on his teeth. Then, a crooked moment. Moran tilted his head.

“What do you have in your hand? Do you think anything you could possibly do will hurt me?”

Behind them, the raven pulled itself pitifully to the nettle shirt discarded on the couch. It reached it. Put its head beneath it and began to crawl inside.

John stood, still coughing, the movement squeezing his hand. Red dripped from between his fingers. He let them fall open, and revealed the secret Sherlock had told him—had given him—on the beach. A single black feather, carved from glass or onyx or some older substance, its edges like razor blades.

“No,” Moran whispered. Smile fell away to reveal the twisted face beneath. “No!”

He leapt, a last chance to stop what was about to happen. John locked eyes on the nettle shirt on the couch, the fabric bulging around the raven. As Moran cleared the table John turned the feather to his own neck and plunged.

“No!”

The room filled with the sounds of birds taking off—the rip of fabric—the gurgle of blood leaving John’s throat—a raven’s cries—a man’s screams. Moran was thrown back, into his tiger shadow, towards the shadows and the flames.

Together they writhed on the floor, wordless, agonized.

“Yes,” a cool voice said. Sherlock, naked, alabaster pure, stepped away from the couch. The nettle shirt was a tattered memory at his feet. Long black scars danced up his arms, as if something had been pulled away from them.

“We will burn you,” Moran snarled. Flames began to dance at the tips of his fingers, in his hair. They reached from the fireplace for the beast and the darkness, reached as the tiger shadow snarled and jumped against the walls, reached as Moran tried to push himself to his feet and blazed with the fury of darkness unforgiven.

“No, you won’t.”

For Sherlock was water, had always been water; the cold drizzle of London in the spring, the rush into her gutters in the fall, the icy rains that gathered in sewers and clung to the black umbrellas of the royal family. He walked to John and knelt in the pool of his spreading blood and smiled, as invisible feathers ruffled in the air and Moran’s flames leapt higher. In John’s blood, Sherlock was. He looked at Moran in all his flame and fury with grey-green eyes like the Thames in winter, and very calmly said:

“It is over. We’ve won.”

Moran screamed then, the sound tiger-like in itself, and his flames turned inwards. They devoured the golden hair and the cruel smile, the gun, the fingers that had closed so tightly on John’s throat. They ate and ate until Moran was gone and all that was left was the tiger shadow of his master. Sherlock watched as it, too, was consumed. When it was done, there was only a scorch mark on the floor to mark the last passage of Sebastian Moran & Jim Moriarty.

The flames died down, and the room fell silent. The only noise left was the thin gurgle of blood as John died on the floor.

“Now, John,” Sherlock said, and laid a pale hand along John’s cheek. The light was spilling from his eyes. “It is time we both came back.”

With supple fingers Sherlock pulled the bloodied dark feather from John’s throat and placed it on the floor. Then, infinitely gentle, he lowered his head and put bloody lips to John’s. The kiss started cold and warmed slowly. When Sherlock next opened his eyes, John was staring at him.

“I…” he began, throat rusty with disuse.

“Shh,” Sherlock interrupted. He kissed him once more. “We have time, now.”

Beneath them, the blood began to cool.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The flock of birds perched on top of 221 Baker Street took off in a single movement, filling the air with loose feathers that drifted to the ground like gentle rain. A black car was parked across the street, watching. As the birds flew away the car’s engine started. It idled a few moments, waiting for the feathers to cease their fall; and then it disappeared into the dark and quiet streets of London.

The black town car reemerged half an hour later at the cemetery where they’d held Sherlock’s funeral. Mycroft stepped out, waving a hand to dismiss Anthea when she made to follow him. The gate was unlocked despite the hour and opened easily under his hand.

He made his way to where Mrs. Hudson slept beside Sherlock’s empty plot. Mycroft stood, silent, for a long moment. Then he bent down and laid a black raven feather on the frosted dirt.

“It’s done,” he said. “He’s safe.”

Standing, Mycroft adjusted the red scarf around his throat. He gave a last look to Mrs. Hudson, to the false grave next to her, and turned to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! The end is here! Epilogue already written, will be uploaded tomorrow.


	5. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock jumps, and from the moment his body hits the pavement, John Watson does not say a word. There is a way to bring Sherlock back from the dead, if John is strong enough-and Moriarty doesn't beat him to it.
> 
> A Sherlock fusion fic with Hans Christian Andersen's "Wild Swans."

“What did you call him?” Sherlock, incensed. 

John rolled his eyes and shifted, tucking himself more securely into Sherlock’s chest. Black lines where feathers had once grown stood in sharp relief against Sherlock’s pale arms. They were in the detective’s bed, tangled in his sheets, in his living cool-water-breeze smell with its undercurrent of John and candle wax. 

“I called him Trevor. A perfectly reasonable thing to do, when you consider that Trevor is his name.”

John’s voice was still hoarse, and perhaps always would be. When he gripped Sherlock’s hand it was with calloused fingers. Sherlock, fingers long and unblemished, squeezed back. The consulting detective made a noise somewhere between disgust and impatience. 

“I will not have something called Trevor living in my house. He needs a new name. A better name.”

“You can’t just go around changing things because you feel like it,” John protested, leaning back, but he could see the wheels turning behind Sherlock’s grey eyes and knew that his lover was no longer listening to him. John sighed. Nestled his head back beneath the other’s chin. “All right, then, you wanker. What should we call him?”

Sherlock hummed, tightening his arm around John’s back. “I’ve always fancied the name Gladstone.”

Next to the bed, Gladstone— _ne_ Trevor—barked once. John grinned at the stupid warmth that spread through him from Sherlock’s skin on his and the dog beside their bed and the soft cotton of their sheets and their _home._

“I suppose if he likes it, I can’t really argue,” John murmured. Sherlock hummed in content and tilted his head to nuzzle the side of John’s face. It was prickly with stubble. 

“No. I don’t suppose you can.”

Outside, the wind gusted, and the birds took off from their roosts. John let Sherlock squeeze him tighter. 

“I’d do it again,” he murmured. Sherlock shook his head. Nipped John’s ear, just shy of too sharp. 

“You won’t need to.”

 

 

 

 

_Later_

_It is dark. Two men—one stocky, one long and lean—sleep, their dog at their feet. A candle gutters in the window but does not go out._

_“I love you,” one whispers to the other._

_“I know,” they respond._

_It is quiet. Not the end but not the beginning. Continuation. Confirmation._

_“I know,” he whispers. “Forever, I know.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're done! Took me a year for this small story. Hope it was worth it. Loved writing it, and hearing from everyone :)
> 
> Hit me up on Tumblr (http://hannahkollef.tumblr.com/) for more of my writing and a whole bunch of random stuff.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like this story, you'll really like my novel, "Path of Needles," a dark urban fantasy with a heavy fairy tale influence. 
> 
> You can learn more at my website, HannahKollef.com, or follow my Tumblr (http://hannahkollef.tumblr.com/) for additional drabbles and other fanfic-y goodness.


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